


Second Time Perfect

by lilsmartass



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bottom Clint, Dirty Talk, Feelings, Insecurities, M/M, Natasha is kind of a bitch in this, Oral, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phil is a professional dammit, Power Play, but it's ok, but your mileage may vary, everyone IS consenting, kinkmeme fill, she's new, truth pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: An ill-advised bet pushes Clint and Phil into exploring the UST they’ve been harbouring for one another, but are either of them ready to attempt an emotional investment? Originally for a prompt on the kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Time Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: R  
> Disclaimer: Not mine sadly, a tragedy. I can think of so many things to do with them…  
> Warning/Spoilers: This is 100% consensual and everyone is enjoying themselves. That said, depending on your mileage there are a few things that could be construed as dub con and coercion (on both sides) and there’s definitely a bit of power play going on here. Also, dirty talk. And truth pollen.  
> Genre: Slash of the Clint/Phil flavour, first time, intended as a kinkmeme PWP and then plot snuck in, with extra angst because it’s me. I swear, I don’t even know…  
> Unbetad
> 
> A/N: About a million years ago there was this prompt on the kinkmeme. ‘”SHIELD Agents don’t beg, Hawkeye’ Clint proves him wrong.” So I sat down to write a quick porny drabble and then this happened. I’m really sorry.  
> I am only able to devote so much time to writing fic for fun if my bank balance remains healthy so, without further ado, I’d like to announce the opening of the Dragon Sanctuary found here: http://www.dragon-sanctuary.com/shop/
> 
> I’m one of the dragon historians and a good friend of mine personally hand makes all the models. A really unique addition to any fantasy collection! Please check it out and spread the word and as a thank you, I'd like to offer each of my readers a coupon for money off their dragon. Simply type IKNOWAWRITER into the coupon space when you reach the checkout.

** Second Time Perfect **

 

  **The First Time**

“Oh, come _on_ , sir,” Clint whines.

Phil huffs a very slight noise of irritation through his nose. Clint had been in here insisting on being allowed to take the lead on the tactical aspect of this mission ever since it was announced, and normally, Coulson was all for his agents bettering themselves and Clint had a great head for facts and strategy, but he just isn’t experienced enough to be given a mission of this importance. Phil isn’t explaining that again however, so he just keeps his eyes on his paperwork and waits for Clint to wind down into petulant sulking like he has every other day.

“ _Please_ ,” Clint cajoles hopefully, clasping his hands in front of him ridiculously. “Pretty please with a cherry on top.”

Phil looks at him, hiding the amusement threatening to cur his mouth, and raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Begging is for dogs, Hawkeye.”

Clint smirks at him, a sudden heat in his eyes that makes Phil’s breath catch. He schools his face to impassivity. He and Clint have been dancing around one another for months now; he’s not going to be the first one to break.

“Come on, sir,” Clint repeats, voice is lower than usual, raspy with promise. “Even you must have things you’d beg for.”

The thoughts racing suddenly through Phil’s head aren’t even words, just x-rated pictures. He deepens his unimpressed look. “SHIELD agents _don’t_ beg, Hawkeye.”

Clint’s expression is a mixture of amused, predatory and challenging. “I have to be on the range in an hour. I’m teaching Sitwell’s baby agents unconventional firearms.”

Phil blinks at the surprise turn. “…Alright,” he says after a beat, his usual deadpan having left him for the moment.

Clint’s smirk intensifies, like he somehow knows that Phil’s devoting too much of his attention to warding off a sudden a prominent erection and doesn’t have enough left for sarcasm.

“If I can make you beg before I have to go, you give me the mission.”

Phil regards him, intrigued despite himself. It’s obvious from the dilated state of Clint’s own eyes just what he’s thinking of doing to Phil. Phil hasn’t made a move on him so far because it would be phenomenally unprofessional to be dating his asset, and, whilst no strings sex isn’t explicitly frowned upon, he knows more than he ever wanted to about the other authority figures in Clint’s life who used him for sex and nothing more.

This doesn’t fall strictly into either camp.

It’s not really what Phil wants, but it’s better than nothing, and he’s certain in his own control. He and Clint will screw around for fifty minutes and, at the end of it, nothing will have changed.

He allows himself an open smirk. “Lock the door.”

“Sir, yes sir,” says Clint, jumping to it like he rarely does when issued a command.

The door snicks locked with an air of finality, but before Phil can think on that, Clint is advancing on him. There’s a predatory stalk to his steps. Phil finds his eyes riveted on the archer’s hips and his Adam’s apple bobs as a swallow rasps near painfully against his dry mouth. 

Clint stares down at him for a second, where he’s still seated in his chair, and it takes all the willpower Phil possesses to raise an eyebrow in challenge instead of reaching up and pulling the archer’s lips down to his.

Clint makes a soft sound like air escaping a tire. It’s probably a laugh. With a graceful, acrobatic motion he settles himself smoothly, straddling Phil and locking their hips tightly against one another. He rocks there gently for a second, teasing under the pretence of stretching and squirming to get comfortable.

“That all you got, Barton?” Phil mutters, forcing his voice to sound like it always does instead of the aroused squeak it wants to be. “Just going to squirm about like a cock teasing girl?”

Clint pulls back a little, eyes wide with affected innocence. “You alright, sir? You sound like you’re coming down with something.”

Phil glares balefully but doesn’t retort. Clint’s right. It’s possible that his forcing-his-voice-to-sound-normal had been less than successful. He sounds like he’s been gargling glass shards.

Clint laughs again and then hooks strong, callused hands under Phil’s jacket, anchoring himself firmly and leans in to kiss him.

It’s not as aggressive as Phil would have thought it would be. The kiss is tentative and sweet, aching in its earnestness, and Phil finds himself opening under it as Clint licks delicately at his lips.

They kiss for minutes, or possibly several years, and then Phil remembers this is supposed to be a challenge and nips at Clint’s bottom lip sharply.

Clint draws back with a gasp and there’s something hurt and shocked in his eyes. For a second, Phil thinks to call the whole thing off, but then Clint is squirming again, settling himself even more closely against Phil and the amused, taunting, determined look is back on his face. “So that’s the way you want to play it, sir? I can do that.”

He leaves Phil’s lips alone this time and instead drags his stubble roughened face over Phil’s sensitive skin, discovering with the precision and focus he displays on a mission, every weak spot Phil has: the hollow of his throat, his earlobes, the untouched skin just under his ears.

The hands Phil had meant to keep passively at his side are, he realises belatedly, cinched tightly around Clint’s hips, holding him close and their bodies are rocking together. Any minute now it won’t matter what spot Clint finds and whether he bites down roughly or kisses him hot and wet and hard, Phil will have finished.

Of course, that’s the moment Clint pulls back.

Phil can’t stop the needy desperate whine nor the jerk of his hips as he presses upwards, seeking the friction of a few moments ago. “Barton, wha-?”

“Tell me what you want, sir,” Clint’s voice is low and encouraging, “use your words.”

“I-” Phil sucks in a breath, swallows and opens his eyes, meeting Clint’s eyes head on. The sight of his kiss swollen mouth makes Phil’s blood sing again, but his voice is a credible impersonation of calm this time. “I want you to learn how to fill in acquisitions forms instead of expecting me to do them every time you want a new quiver of arrows.”

Clint scowls. “Apparently I’m not trying hard enough.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Barton. It’s plenty hard enough,” Phil twists his hips to emphasise his point. “It’s just that I’m one of the _good_ SHIELD agents. You know…the ones who _don’t_ beg.”

Clint’s eyes narrow. “We’ll see.”

He takes his time removing Phil’s jacket, rubbing firm caressing circles into the muscle beneath it as though mapping every inch of Phil. Phil watches him, hypnotised by the care and concentration and arousal on his face as he flicks open the buttons on Phil’s shirt with an easy motion that makes Phil ache for those clever fingers on his dick.

His eyes are almost black with need and Phil lets out another moan as a shockingly pink tongue glides over plush lips when the nubs of his nipples are uncovered. Clint peels his eyes away from Phil’s chest for a second to smirk down at him.

“Are you sitting comfortably, sir?”

Phil doesn’t answer; can’t. If he opens his mouth, it won’t be words that escape him, just more humiliating noises.

Clint doesn’t seem to mind his clenched teeth though. He rubs one thumb gently against Phil’s nipple, his eyes intent on Phil’s face, cataloguing reactions as though Phil’s a mark he’s been sent to get Intel on.

Phil sucks in a deep steadying breath and remembers the torture resistance training he had once, years ago. He closes his eyes, trying to will the sensations to a more distant part of his mind and yelps when instead of rough skin in a gentle caress, a nail slices across the nipple instead.

“Eyes on me, sir,” Clint says.

“You can’t give me orders, agent,” Phil gasps out.

Clint takes the already tortured nipple between two fingers and tugs it gently, rolling it until another thready whine escapes Phil and he throws his head back, then he darts back in, nipping and sucking teasingly against the exposed line of Phil’s throat.

“I’ll make it worth your while to look at me,” Clint murmurs, words more felt than heard.

Phil wrenches his eyes open, unable to dampen the curiosity despite his arousal. Clint catches his eye and smirks wider, before winking insolently and pulling Phil’s hand up to his mouth beginning to fellate his index and middle fingers with indecent enthusiasm.

“Barton-” Phil gasps out.

Clint pulls the fingers out of his mouth with a wet, sloppy pop. He guides the hand down to his own crotch and begins rocking against it, body relaxed and sensuous, and Phil can’t help but moan again. “Yes, sir?”

“I- I want…”

Clint leans in close enough that he and Phil are sharing air. “What do you want, sir?” he whispers, and with every movement of his lips they brush against Phil’s sending electric shocks skittering up his spine.

“I want your mouth…on me,” Phil answers, only keeping his voice level at the last moment.

The triumph that lights Clint’s face at that makes him look like an angel, or a demon, or some inhumanly beautiful mix of both. “What’s the magic word, sir?”

Phil swallows dryly. It’s not about the mission now. Clint is the best field agent he’s worked with since Sitwell was promoted to senior analyst, and Phil himself will be there just in case. He’ll have to do some fancy footwork on the paperwork to get Fury to overlook putting someone so inexperienced on tactical lead, but it won’t be a problem. A slap on the wrist at most. And Clint deserves the chance. No, now it’s purely about pride.

His eyes dart to the wall, but, at this angle, he can’t see the clock. He could have seconds left of this torture to endure, or Clint could continue it for another thirty minutes. He has no idea.

“Sir,” Clint presses, bucking harder into Phil’s still absently stroking hand. “The magic word?”

Phil swallows again. He’s never broken easily. “Now,” he manages to force out.

A giggle explodes out of Clint. “Seriously?”

“Well, Barton? Hop to it,” Phil answers, and he knows his commanding face is lacking with hair plastered damply to his forehead and a flush high on his cheekbones.

Nonetheless, Clint’s eyes darken gratifyingly and his eyelashes sweep down, brushing against perfect skin. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs, obedient and compliant. For once.

He slips from Phil’s lap, landing easily on his own knees in front of him. He leans forward, rubbing his cheek against Phil’s obscenely tented crotch.

Phil gives a hoarse, raw moan and has to shut his eyes against the image. He hears Clint laugh again and then his senses all but white out as a hot _perfect_ mouth closes around his still cloth covered cock.

“Fuck, sir,” Clint’s voice is as rough as though his throat is filled with sandpaper, “you’re dripping. I can taste you through your pants.”

A dark flush crawls up Phil’s neck at the filthy statement, but his cock jumps against Clint’s lips. “Barton,” he moans and this time his voice isn’t steady, it’s damn near pleading.

“You like that, sir? Like it when I talk dirty? You want to know what I’m thinking about right now?”

He pauses, and Phil gives a single jerky nod of acquiescence.

“Yeah? How much do you want to hear it?”

“En- enough to be thinking of threatening to land you with a six month deployment to Siberia if you don’t keep talking,” Phil snaps.

Clint pouts, lower lip jutting against Phil’s too sensitive skin.

Phil clenches his fist, nails digging into his palm. He’s not going to give in. He. Is. Not. He’s an agent of SHIELD. He is not going to beg. He softens his voice slightly and lets a conciliatory edge in. “Talk to me, Barton.”

Clint’s eyes flicker sideways.

 _Checking the time_ , Phil thinks. He almost moans again when the expression that steals over Clint’s face states clearly that he still _has_ time. He dips his head back down to Phil’s crotch, worshipping there with gentle kisses that Phil can barely feel through the rough suit material and hard sucks to the head, teeth grazing and producing sparks just on the right side of pain.

“I’m thinking about opening myself up for you,” Clint admits after a minute, pulling away but continuing to tease with the pads of his fingers. “I’m thinking about cuffing you to that chair so all you can do is watch while I drape myself over your desk and shove as many fingers as I can get into my ass so I’m slick and ready for you, and then I’d sit back on your lap and ride your cock.”

The image alone makes Phil give a keening little whimper. He grits his teeth against the pleas that want to follow it.

“I’m really good at riding cock,” Clint confides with a wicked smirk, as though he’s bragging about his ability to drink his body weight in hard spirits or the fact that he can stand on one hand for a whole thirty minutes. “I’d clench around you, squeezing tight, so that every thrust makes it obvious how greedy my ass is for your cock. It’d be practically sucking you in. And on every down stroke I’d slam myself onto you so you could bottom out properly. You’re big, sir, but I could definitely take you. Maybe, I’d even show you how much of a slut I really am. Uncuff one hand and let you get a couple of fingers in there as well.”  

It’s lucky Clint has a hand clenched tight – past the point of friction, Barton definitely knows what he’s doing – around him now. Phil would definitely have finished. Instead he makes a high bitten off sound.

Clint ignores him, except to rub his other hand over the head of Phil’s cock, chaffing his now sodden pants against the skin there.

“You wouldn’t even have to give me a reach around. I can come just like that, you know. With a dick like yours in my ass I won’t need a hand on my cock at all.”

“Do it,” Phil grates out, words falling from his mouth without any conscious input from his brain at all. “I haven’t got any cuffs in here, but I’ve got zip ties. Go nuts.”

“Awww…that’s sweet, sir, but I haven’t even got a safeword set up.”

“ _Barton_ ,” Phil growls.

“You have lubricant in here?”

Phil flushes again. He does actually. Sometimes, when Clint comes in here, damp with sweat from a workout and crackling with excitement or rage, Phil needs it. He’s not quite ready to admit that though, and he’s not quite so far gone as to give up his secrets without a fight. “No. This is an office, Barton, not a brothel.”

Clint gives an affected sigh. “You’re out of luck then, sir. I’m not going dry and no matter what porn tells you, saliva is never adequate, especially not for something like this,” he squeezes tight, dragging a hand from base to head. “Guess you’re stuck with my mouth.”

“Your mouth does something other than spew insubordinate comments?” Phil asks.

Clint peeks up at him, gauging seriousness then leans in close and bites, hard, right in the crease where thigh meets crotch. Phil moans, wanton as any whore and his whole body tightens, pushing up, but the sensation of his own spit and pre-come darkened pants isn’t enough to push him over the edge.

Clint lets him ride out the near pain sensation of almost – _almost_ – coming, and then drops one hand down, rubbing almost soothingly against Phil’s dick before flicking down the zip. Phil makes another wanton noise as he springs free, cool air and Clint’s warm breath hitting him.

“It wasn’t my main act but I learned to sword-swallow in the circus,” Clint says conversationally. He presses a kiss to the throbbing vein just beneath the head, and then laps delicately at the tip, giving a sigh of satisfaction at the taste of the pre-come beading there.

And that’s it. Phil’s done. Forget a single op, Clint can run _SHIELD_ if he wants, as long as he gets his mouth on Phil right now.

“Barton,” he pushes up against strong hands bruising his hips and achieves nothing but an increase in the teasing pressure of the soft lips nuzzling against him. “Barton, _please_.”

Clint rewards him with a long, hot lick from base to tip. “What was that, sir?”

“Barton…”

“You understand I’ve got a lot riding on this. I just don’t want there to be any mistake about the begging later.”

Phil breathes in through his nose and holds the breath. He considers resisting a little more, but then Clint’s fingers are inside his pants, protecting his cock from the rasp of the zipper and stroking teasingly against his balls.

“Please,” he says again, clearly and deliberately, “please suck my cock, Clint.”

Clint sucks in a sharp breath, his own hips jerking, and though Phil’s not entirely sure what caused it, he can’t deny it makes his own dizzying arousal spiral higher. He’s reasonably sure he doesn’t have any blood above his waistline right now.

“Why should I?” he asks, voice sweet and rich as honey, tongue tracing letters into Phil’s over-sensitised flesh.

Phil whines helplessly, desperately. “Because I’m begging, Barton. That’s what you wanted.”

“It _was_.” Clint’s tongue is still dragging lazy teasing circles

Phil tilts his head back with another loud groan. “And what do you want now?”

“Well, sir. You made me work tremendously hard for this. Now, I’m thinking more along the lines of grovelling.”

“ _Barton_ ,” Phil all but sobs. He takes a deep breath and then another. “I will blow you while I hump your leg like a dog,” he grits out, words as precise as always but with a decidedly ragged undertone, “but please, _please_ let me come.”

Clint’s eyes go wide and his hand is suddenly fumbling at his own front, gripping himself tightly as he breathes through what looks to be a very precariously held back orgasm. “Christ, sir. You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

Phil lowers his voice, entreating like he rarely allows himself to, “Finish me off, Barton. Please.”

“And you’ll let me have the op?” The question is punctuated by a shallow, but powerful, suck. Clint’s tongue swirling around like Phil’s some kind of custom made lollypop.

“Y- Yeah,” Phil agrees. “Yeah, whatever you want.”

Clint hums his approval and then swallows Phil down properly. The sound he makes as he does so allows Phil to imagine, if just for a moment, that Clint wanted to do this just as much as Phil wanted him to.

His grip on Phil’s hips slackens, but Phil wouldn’t dream of arching up into Clint’s mouth without warning, would never take more than he’s willing to give. Instead he drops one hand down to stroke the crown of Clint’s head, not forcing him down or even holding him in place, just supporting and steadying. In a feat of multitasking which amazes even him, he moves one foot to nudge gently at Clint’s own bulging crotch and strokes carefully with the toe of his shoe.

Clint gives a moan which reverberates around Phil until he can feel it all the way to the soles his feet and the tips of his hair and begins rocking backwards and forwards against the shined leather.

It’s that, the idea that Clint wants him, and not the wet perfect pressure of Clint’s mouth, that pushes Phil over the edge and between one breath and the next he’s coming in thick spurts.

Clint tenses and then he’s shuddering, coming too as he swallows down every drop Phil has to give him. It seems to last forever, even longer than Clint’s sexual torture had, but, at last, Phil finishes, feeling drained and more satisfied than he’s been with a mere blow job in nearly a decade.

Clint pulls off of him, slowly, and the teasing draw of his lips, send sparks of pleasure heightened pain through Phil’s skin. He settles back on his heels, resting his head against the inside of Phil’s thigh and just breathing through his own endorphin haze.

Phil reaches down and tucks himself back in before touching Clint’s head gently, not stroking, not that. The intimacy Clint had offered him during the act is not his for the taking in the aftermath. Clint isn’t _his_.

Clint’s face turns up, eyes searching for his. It warms Phil to see that even hazy like this, Clint still searches for him as an anchor. He casts about for something normal to say.

“So how do you want to run your op, Agent Barton?” He’s proud to hear that his voice is very nearly back to normal.

Clint wobbles very slightly as he unfolds himself back to his feet. He’s standing too close, but neither of them comments. His gaze sharpens, some of his usual intensity bleeding back in. “I want to rewrite it. I want to bring the Black Widow in instead of taking her out.”

Phil wonders if some brain cells got sucked out through his dick. It’s been a long time since he couldn’t follow Clint’s thought process at all, but Clint might as well have announced his intent to train unicorns for all the sense his words just made to Phil. “What? Why?” He asks, and he’s calm, he is, he’s just confused.

Clint’s eyes flicker away from him very slightly, but enough to send ice cold tendrils racing for Phil’s heart. “Because I know her, and I know that’s what she wants us to do.”

 

**The Interlude**

Phil has done an amazing job – if he does say so himself – of avoiding Clint over the past week. It’s actually really hard to avoid the tactical head of the mission he’s in charge of, but he’s managed it. And without compromising anyone else’s safety.

How could he be so stupid? He knew all about Clint’s past, there was a reason he had never made a move before, despite having feelings that had moved past simple lust some time ago, for the agent. He had failed Clint unspeakably.

All Clint had ever needed to do had been come to him and explain that he had history with the Black Widow and wanted to bring her in. Phil would’ve heard him out. He always heard Clint out. Instead, he had made Clint believe he had to whore himself for the chance to save a friend’s life.

God, what had he done?

 

**The Aftermath**

The mission goes off without a hitch, and Natalia – Natasha now – is accepted into the rank and file of SHIELD. There’ll be some issues to work through, but he’s pretty sure that when the rest of SHIELD gets a look at just how fucking good she is, the Black Widow will be a hit.

Hey, even Director Fury had said he’d done well to bring her in.

This would probably be the best week of his life if not for the fact that Coulson blatantly doesn’t want him the way Clint wishes he did. He wishes he hadn’t done it, wishes he hadn’t given into the impulse to make a cute, flirty little joke just to test the waters. The nagging wondering and the lovelorn fucking pining that he’d gone to such lengths to hide had been better than this. Than this _knowing_.

God, he’s pathetic. Knowing should be better. At least now he knows he can start the process of moving on from being somewhat tragically in love with his handler.

Instead, he’s lurking outside Coulson’s office, steeling himself for the deliberate blank mask that’s been all Coulson has turned on him since it happened.

Just because it had been the best orgasm of his _entire fucking life_ didn’t mean it had been worth this. Worth the knowledge that Coulson – _Coulson_ – thinks his only worth is in his mouth; thinks that now he’s had it being _friends_ with Clint isn’t even worth the effort anymore. God, he’d been stupid to even think it could be anything more.

Clint forces down the self-loathing and taps lightly at the door. He waits for Coulson’s, “Come,” before he enters.

Last week, he would have just pushed in, but the last time he’d done that he’d caught a flash of something that looked like _hatred_ in the older agent’s eyes as he had recognised Clint. Call him a coward, but he can’t bear to see that again.

Coulson’s bland Agent mask is on when he enters. It doesn’t falter. He doesn’t make a sarcastic remark, or issue or gentle reprimand designed to hide concern.

“You can leave your report there, Agent Barton,” is all he says, gesturing at a stack on the corner of the desk.

Clint rocks on his feet for a second. _It doesn’t have to mean anything_ he thinks about saying. _I’m sorry I came on too strong, but I’m a fucking adult. You never did get to try my ass. Why not come over tonight. You don’t even have to stay for breakfast if it makes you uncomfortable. I won’t tell anyone you’re fucking the field grunts._ He’s not quite pathetic enough to beg like that though.

Clint drops the report form on the top of the others. “Yes, sir. You want to debrief?”

Since the clusterfuck that was Monaco, Clint and Coulson had made it tradition to debrief after every mission at the local all-night diner.

Coulson smiles emptily, the look reserved for the Junior Agents he doesn’t remember the names of. “You have 48 hours to recuperate, Agent Barton. The debrief is on Tuesday, conference room 163.”

“Right,” Clint says quietly, another crack opening on his already shattered heart.

“Is that all, agent?”

The apprehension on Coulson’s face would be almost unnoticeable to anyone else, but Clint’s put a lot of effort into learning to read every minute twitch of this man. There’s no reason for Coulson to be uncomfortable. Clint’s had plenty of experience with being unwanted when he’s given what was needed. He’s not going to make any awkward declarations.

“Yes, sir,” he mutters, wishing the words didn’t send a wash of lust through him, wishing they didn’t invoke the feeling of Phil’s hands, gentle in hair and his voice – _please suck my cock, Clint_ – and the taste of him, warm on Clint’s tongue. He digs his nails into his leg and walks out of the office.

Clint spends his 48 hours brooding endlessly. He swings wildly from stamping around his quarters, throwing everything he owns onto the floor in helpless rage because how _dare_ Coulson do this to him? How dare he? If Clint’s not good enough for anything more than a quick fuck in Coulson’s office that’s one thing, but the bastard might at least have the decency to _tell_ him. And morose wondering what he could have done differently, done _better_. Sure, riding Coulson dry would have hurt like a motherfucker, but maybe if he had Coulson would have stuck around, at least for a while.

He thinks, more than once, of going to Coulson and offering. But like Coulson said, SHIELD agents _don’t_ beg, and a bit of teasing between friends is one thing, Clint doesn’t even want to imagine the disgust in Coulson’s eyes if Clint showed him just how weak he is under the swagger and bravado and smart remarks. He’d be lucky just to be demoted away from sensitive information and critical missions. More likely Coulson, loyal to the bone, company man Coulson, will want someone as useless as Clint out of SHIELD as fast as possible and he’ll wake up in some Podunk town with no memory of who he was before.

It might feel like there’s something eating everything in his rib cage, but anything has to be better than being thrown out of the only real home he’s ever had. And maybe, if he works really hard and shows Coulson he can move on and be a damn professional and ignores what was obviously a very ill-timed adrenaline fuck, he can win back his respect.

*

And he tries, he does. But it’s seven weeks later and Coulson is still doing his damndest not to make eye contact with him. It’s almost become normal by now. It still hurts like a flame thrower to his tender underside, but at least it’s an expected pain, one he can brace for and hide.

Now he just has to break the habit of following Coulson around like a puppy whenever he gets wind of where the man is going to be. Hopefully, he’s not obvious to anyone else. Possible, because Coulson’s become a fucking master of not being where Clint used to be able to find him so his stalking has taken several unexpected setbacks. Of course, that just makes him clingier when he _can_ find the older agent.

All of which goes to explain why Clint is sitting in on a totally irrelevant (to him) meeting between Natasha, Coulson and the R&D people about their new interrogation drugs.

The R&D guys are excited in a way that makes him more than a little uncomfortable about their latest whatever-the-fuck. Guaranteed truth serum: doesn’t need to be taken internally just sprinkled on the perp and can be passed through touch.

Oh, it’s not that he can’t see the practical applications, spill a tainted drink on a low level minion in a bar, let him go to work in the morning, spreading the inability to lie about _anything_ to every person he brushes against in the elevator or by the water cooler, then swoop in, arrest everyone, and listen to their comprehensive and guaranteed truthful testimonies.

But being able to lie is Clint’s first, and favourite, survival mechanism. Does Doctor Ethics-Are-A-Consideration-Of-Other-People really have to be so excited?

Apparently.

And apparently, Clint’s sour mood and misgivings are not the response anyone is really expecting. Natasha looks positively impressed and even Coulson is smiling a little.

A smile that instantly drops off his face when there’s a sudden sneeze, a crash, a flurry of motion and the air is of full of blue dust. There’s absolute stillness for a second.

“Are we…?” Clint asks.

“It would appear so,” Natasha says, her calm edging into that state where she’s getting ready to inflict some serious violence. Clint doesn’t really feel the impulse to stop her.

“Did you just…Did you actually just drop the truth pollen?” Clint demands, rounding on the R&D chemist who had been talking to them. The R&D chemist who, it now occurs to him, is wearing a fucking hazmat suit. “How are you even allowed to be in charge of your own toothbrush? You are a complete and utter moron.”

Coulson puts a calming hand on his shoulder and it makes him jerk into instant silence. Coulson hasn’t touched him casually since… _since_.

“I will be filing a report on this department and its cavalier attitude to dangerous compounds,” he states casually and only the slight flex of the fingers on Clint’s shoulder tell him that he hadn’t meant to say it at all. “In the meantime,” Coulson continues smoothly, “You might like to try following SHIELD protocol and issuing a Code Blue. The corridors will need to be cleared so Agent Romanov, Agent Barton and I can make our way to the quarantine rooms without infecting the rest of SHIELD. Something I think you’ll agree would be a catastrophe.”

Clint can think of very little worse than being stuck in a quarantine room with Coulson and no chance of hiding anything he’s feeling. “I don’t-” he stammers out. “I can’t-” He can’t even lie about his reasons, so he bites back the explanation _burning_ to get out. “I’ll stay in lockdown in my quarters. Or in medical. I _swear_ , but don’t make me-”

Coulson’s hand, the most comforting thing Clint has felt in ages, clenches once, tightening to the point of pain and he almost sighs into it, almost nuzzles against the knuckles, but bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood and doesn’t. Then it drops away. Clint’s shoulder feels achingly, breakingly cold.

“We have to, Agent Barton. Protocol dictates-”

“I don’t give a _shit_ about protocol. But I can’t- I can’t-” He’s almost hyperventilating.

It’s Natasha who gets in his space, pulling him close and murmuring to him in languages he doesn’t speak, filling his ears with reassurance that he doesn’t have to answer because it’s incomprehensible.

They go to quarantine. Fury makes him clear it’s that or a bullet behind the ear but he’s not letting his secret agency be compromised by Clint’s stubbornness.

Clint would take the bullet, but Natasha makes it perfectly clear that _that’s_ not an option and all but drags him.

Coulson, face rife with more emotion than Clint has ever seen there before, lips compressed so tight that they’re bloodless, leads the way. Once they’re in, door locked behind them, he stakes out the farthest corner in the room and folds himself into it, face pressed to the smooth white tile.

Clint guesses he should just be grateful that Coulson cares about him enough to be trying to stop him saying everything he must have been thinking since Clint decided to act like a total slut. Or maybe he hasn’t even spared a thought for Clint. Coulson knows a lot of things that he’d pretty much be required to kill over if anyone found out.

Clint feels a flush crawling up his body. He wonders if that’s a side effect of the drug or just his own panic. When he finally peels his eyes away from the tense, shaking line of Coulson’s back, he finds Natasha watching him.

“What?” he snarls.

“What is the problem between you two?”

Clint shoves his fingers far enough down his throat that they scratch his throat and make him gag, but he doesn’t pull them out, biting his own flesh bloody as he can’t help but answer. At least it renders him incomprehensible.

“You raved about Agent Coulson when you brought me in. You swore up and down that he was the greatest person ever to walk the earth, but I haven’t seen you speak to him once. Did you lie to me?”

He’s moved his hands away from his mouth to allow some deep breaths to quell the dry-heaving and he can’t get them back up quickly enough. A ragged furious shocked, “No!” makes it past his lips and his eyes are drawn inexorably back to Coulson who is watching him with fascinated attention.

Clint clamps a hand over his mouth and backs away from Natasha, but there’s nowhere to go. He’s locked in. She stalks towards him, and her fist lashes out.

Clint takes the hit; he doesn’t want to move his hand. He doubles over and the seal over his mouth relaxes against his will as he’s forced to suck in air. Coulson’s on his feet by then, looking conflicted and tortured, but voice steady and commanding as he says, “Stand down, Agent Romanov.”

Natasha ignores him completely and in less than a blink of an eye she has Clint twisted, hands behind his back, unable to struggle due to the way she’s over extending his shoulders and his mass between Coulson and her, daring Coulson to go through Clint to stop her.

Coulson freezes and Clint kicks back. She dodges without apparent thought, and he slams his head back. She can’t avoid that so easily and he hears the crack of at least one bone in her face snapping, but she doesn’t let go and pulls his shoulders until he gives a high animal whine.

“Agent Romanov-” And Coulson sounds _dangerous_ now.

Clint can’t help but feel warm. It’s always made him tingle to hear Coulson defending him.

Natasha leans in close and Clint suddenly with the almost preternatural senses that have served him well in the field knows what she’s going to do. “Don’t-” he gasps out, “Don’t you _dare_!”

Natasha sneers at him, what he can see of her beautiful face out of the corner of his eye is already distorted by a rapidly swelling eye and streaks of blood.

“Natasha-” he entreats, but any pity she might have had for him has evaporated.

“So Clint, what exactly _do_ you feel for Agent Coulson?”

Coulson, in the process of surging forward, freezes, and his gaze locks, dark and desperate onto Clint.

“I _hate_ you,” grits out, twisting as much as he can, ready to dislocate his shoulder, ready to tear his own arm off, if it’ll mean he doesn’t have to answer.

Coulson freezes and his face goes lax, distraught. He doesn’t realise the statement was meant for Natasha, Clint realises and the distraction of that thought successfully prevents him from fighting for the second it takes for the words to slip past his lips.

“I love him. I’d do anything for him.”

He risks a glance at Coulson and sees the older agent staring at him, but there’s no answer on his face, merely amazement and distrust.

Clint’s eyes fall to the floor and the fight drains out of him. He can’t stop the torrent that continues to fall out of him and the shame flushes his body like a flash-fire. “I’ve always loved him and sucking his dick was the single most erotic experience of my life. I dream about it, I-”

“Let him _go_!” Coulson thunders, panic threading his voice and this time Natasha does so.

Clint stumbles forward a few places, hand already locked over his mouth, and would have fallen if Coulson hadn’t caught him, holding almost his entire weight as if it is nothing. He wraps one arm around Clint’s waist, firm and strong and steadying but so fucking gentle and moves the other to cover the hand keeping the words still pouring out of him to unintelligible mumbles.

Clint tenses, waiting for him to force the hand away, to ask a new question, to rip into him while he’s vulnerable.

Coulson pushes down harder, firmer. “Take your time, Barton,” he whispers. “I can’t hear a thing.” And, miracle of miracles he shuts his eyes and starts to hum an off-key rendition of _Bat out of Hell_. Clint leans in to him, pressing his face into Coulson’s shoulder, muffling the words he can’t stop still further.

Natasha doesn’t come closer, Coulson’s still radiating the kind of menace that makes that obviously unwise, but her voice is smug when she says clearly, “And Agent Coulson, how do you feel about Agent Barton?”

Coulson looks down at him and drops his head, nuzzling just for a second at Clint’s hair. There’s the faintest whisper of the suggestion of a kiss. “I love you too, idiot.”

The shock silences Clint, and he pulls his head up, pulling back to stare at Coulson, half certain he’s joking despite knowing he’s incapable of that right now.

Coulson meets his eyes fearlessly and continues, heedless of their audience. “I’ve always loved you too. You were everything I’ve always respected and admired, that’s why I fought Fury so hard to bring you in and then let me keep you.”

“Then why-?”

Coulson’s eyes cut away for the briefest second. “I thought you had only given yourself to me for a chance to save the Black Widow. I thought I’d taken advantage of you. Hurt you. I’ve been so afraid you’d request a new handler.”

It’s the admission of fear that stutters the breath in Clint’s chest. “No,” he says lowly. “Never.”

If they were in the kind of shitty romance book that Clint will deny until his dying day he reads out of choice, now would be the time to surge in, to capture Phil’s lips with his own. Instead, Clint merely wriggles a little closer, his whole body bracketed against Coulson’s.

Coulson lets him, strong arms pulling him impossibly tighter. Clint steadies his own breathing to the easy rise and fall of Coulson’s chest. Coulson allows that too, holding him still and sure and safe. He wants to stretch up and kiss him, but Coulson’s the most private man he knows. He won’t want to be having PDA’s in front of his assets. Besides, it was Clint’s stupid libido that had gotten them into this mess.

He starts slightly when Coulson moves, burying his face against Clint’s hair in a way that is affectionate, not sexual, and yet more intimate a touch than anyone has given him in…ever.  “I love you,” he breathes against Clint’s crown and this time it means more because Coulson wanted to say that, there were no awkwardly timed questions forcing him.

“You too,” he answers, words pressed to Coulson’s collar bone, then he takes one last steadying breath and squeezes one of Coulson’s hands before stepping backwards a pace and glaring at Natasha. “That was a shitty thing to do.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve been here for two months and I already know that you’re both so stubborn and so wrapped up in your own insecurities that that could have gone on for years.”

It’s not the point. It’s probably _true_ , but it’s not the point. The point is that what Natasha forced him to do goes far beyond tough love. She had been completely ready to use their current unfortunate state against him in the worst way.

“You wouldn’t like it!”

She sneers, and it’s amazing how the unattractive expression can so distort her face.

Clint gives a sub-vocal growl; enraged. “Well, since you don’t care, why don’t you tell us all about your childhood?”

The sneer leaves Natasha’s face abruptly, becomes something hunted and trapped. Beneath the blood and bruises her face whitens. “You- you impotent _cocksucking_ whore.”

The epithet leaves Clint unmoved and he watches impassively as she moans around the words forcing their way up her throat and lapses into broken Russian. He doesn’t care that he doesn’t speak enough Russian to understand the answer. It was never about information gathering, he just wanted Natasha to understand what she had done.

Coulson, who speaks a little more than he does, looks sickened.

He doesn’t let go of Clint, but he drags him far nearer to an enraged Black Widow than Clint really wants to go, _whatever_ his annual report says about reckless behaviour. Natasha starts at the first touch on her shoulder and turns around, snarling.

Coulson looks back at her, unmoved and unafraid. “I think Agent Barton’s point has been proven now, you can stop.”

She looks like she’s about to lash out anyway, but the relief of her own voice suddenly released from its compulsion to talk stills her. Coulson settles beside her, his frame between her and Clint in case he has read this situation wrongly. Natasha looks at them, bemused, and Clint gives her a shit eating grin and settles down, tucking his body tight against Coulson’s and watching her beadily.

“Now we’re even. You didn’t care what I had to say, and I didn’t understand you.”

Seemingly despite herself, Natasha smirks. She’s still watching them, uncertain, but little by little the trapped look falls off her face and she begins to untense a little. They wait like that, close enough to share air, drawing comfort from proximity and in silence so an unguarded question doesn’t trigger a barrage of truth, until medical give them the all clear.

Clint doesn’t let go of Coulson’s hand once.

 

**The Second Time**

Phil doesn’t take Clint home, not because he doesn’t want to, he does. He wants to spread him out on his bed and catalogue every sensitive spot on his body, he wants to cook him breakfast after, he wants to fight over the television remote. It feels right however, to do this in the office. That is where it started, and to cross the line from professional to personal is, for both of them, a big step. Even with the truth forced on them by R&D’s spectacular fuck up, neither of them divulged more than they absolutely could help, and the reasons he hadn’t asked Clint out before are still there. It’s important to make sure they’re on the same page.

Clint shows up in a pair of soft sweat pants and a ragged t-shirt. Comfort clothes, but also a shedding of armour that warms Phil, proves to him that whatever this does and doesn’t mean, Clint still trusts him. His hair is slightly damp and his skin is still flushed from the shower. It’s all Phil can do not to pounce on him there and then.

Clint settles on the end – his end – of the ratty grey sofa wedged between the desk and the filing cabinet and just looks at Phil. “I meant it, you know,” he says into the silence, words dropping like stones into a still pool. “I didn’t have any choice but to tell- But I won’t hold it against you if you didn’t.”

The breath stutters in Phil’s chest, that Clint could think a gentle let down was what he had been called here for and had chosen to come in nothing but a thin layer of cotton…

He stands and walks around to the sofa, shutting and locking the door as he passes it and drops, unselfconsciously, to his knees in front of Clint. “No. I meant ever word. I love you. I…Clint I’ve been in love with you since…Holland at least. And even before then…your file…the things you can do…the things you’ve survived and refused to break under…”

Clint flushes, a slow warming flush pinking his skin. He reaches out, cupping Phil’s head carefully in one strong hand. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“I was…I didn’t want to ruin what we do have. I didn’t want you to think your career depended on it, or that my friendship did.”

Clint pulls his feet off the ground, curling them underneath himself and, as one sneakered foot passes his face, Phil grabs at it and kisses the incongruously delicate ankle. Clint’s blush deepens.

“I…Jesus Phil. I’ve wanted you since…the first time you let me move nest when I found somewhere better without giving me the whole song and dance routine about it being on my head if my lack of trust in the analyst department caused the mission to fail. And I’ve loved you since Egypt.”

“Egypt was a catastrophe.”

“You brought me breakfast in bed every day until my ribs healed. No one’s ever…You cared.”

Phil takes hold of the hand still cupped around his face and holds it in place as he turns into it, kisses the palm and then moves down. He hears Clint’s soft inhalation as he presses his lips to the soft skin at Clint’s wrist. “Of course I care.” He doesn’t leave Clint time to answer, instead, using his tongue to trace the blue lines of Clint’s veins.

Clint rocks up without thinking and Coulson looks up at him, eyes dark and glittering. “I think I owe you something. While I’m down here.” Clint doesn’t answer, looks shocked at the mere suggestion and Phil keeps his eyes on him as he draws his lips back up the bones of his hand and sucks two fingers into his mouth.

He takes his time laving over them, showing Clint just what his tongue can do. By the time he reaches out a hand to palm Clint’s cock, he’s hard and dripping. He feels impossibly warm through the thin material of his pants and against Phil’s palm and he rocks up against him without thought.

“Going to make you feel so good, Clint,” Phil murmurs and Clint moans again, jolting.

Phil smiles at that. It might be the first time he’s called Clint by his name outside of medical. Clint rolls his hips, a slow teasing slide that makes Phil think about getting more than his hand on him.

“Come on, come on,” Clint moans, sobs really. “Harder, Phil. Stop teasing.”

Phil jerks himself. Maybe Clint has a point. It’s incredible to hear the voice he’s fantasised about calling him by name, and though he’s tempted to remind Clint how much of a tease _he_ was the last time they did this, he wants to make it clear that this is a fresh start, the way it should have been from the beginning.

“Come here,” he says, and it’s not a command, not really, more a plea and Clint leans down towards him, following his instruction instinctively.

Phil presses their lips together, and this time he doesn’t make the kiss a challenge, instead it’s a promise and he pours every feeling he has ever had for Clint into it.

Clint shudders like electricity is passing through him, and maybe it is. That’s certainly the way it feels to Phil. He groans into Clint’s mouth as the archer tugs on his hair, and Clint swallows the noise greedily, like it’s everything he ever wanted.

Phil wants to pull Clint down on top of him, or surge up and roll him over, but he never wants to feel like he took unfair and unwanted advantage of Clint ever again, so he stays where he is, kneeling between Clint’s splayed thighs and letting the other decide the pace.

Clint doesn’t pull back from his lips until he’s sucking in desperate needful breaths, and even they he stays close enough that Phil is sharing each lungful. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs softly, reverently.

Phil flushes. He hasn’t blushed in years, but there’s something about Clint showering him with ridiculous compliments in that voice. He half arches up closer, a whine threading his voice, but he doesn’t beg for what he wants – _needs_ – this time. He won’t. It’s not pride, but he needs to know that Clint wants this too, that he’s not just giving into Phil.

He doesn’t have to wait long, Clint’s eyes darken until they’re almost black, and then he’s out of his seat, bearing Phil to the floor. Phil lets him, happy to have his warm, solid weight on top of him. Clint ruts against him for a moment before getting control of himself and stilling. He brushes a soft kiss to the angle of Phil’s jaw.

“Let me-” he starts.

“ _Yes_!” Phil answers, willing to let Clint to anything to him in this moment.

Clint turns the kiss into a bite. “You shouldn’t agree without knowing the terms, sir. It’s dangerous.”

“Yeah? Are you going to teach me a lesson, agent Barton?”

Clint chuckles against his throat, breath teasing at the sensitive hollow there. “Another time.”

His callused hands are infinitely gentle as he undresses Phil, carefully, but quickly enough that Phil knows Clint is matching his own desperation and doesn’t even suggest stopping and waiting.

He divests himself of his own clothing much more quickly, tossing the sweat pants and T-shirt into and untidy heap where he had folded Phil’s suit somewhat haphazardly on the sofa.

“There’s lube in the desk drawer, far right,” Phil gasps, strong stomach muscles flexing as he rocks almost unnoticeably and fights to stay still.

“I _knew_ you had some in here.”

“Are you complaining?”

Clint favours him with a cocky smirk and pushes to his feet, ass swaying tantalisingly as he heads towards the drawer. “No, sir.”

He comes back with the small tube, the one that Phil is humiliatingly aware is half empty, in his hands. He settles himself once more over Phil’s legs and squeezes a small amount onto Phil’s fingers, before guiding his hand to where he wants it to be. Phil doesn’t need that much prompting.

He circles Clint’s opening gently with one slick finger, rubbing teasingly until he feels the muscle begins to flutter beneath the pressure. He wraps his other arm around Clint’s waist, steadying him and then slides a finger carefully inside.

Clint’s eyes flutter closed, a noise of ecstasy tearing out of him and he pushes down, seating himself on Phil’s hand, driving him as deep as he possibly can.

Phil forces himself not to speed up, to be careful. For all his eagerness, Clint’s channel is tight, and Phil has no intention of hurting him. He thrusts the finger in and out carefully, seeking. Clint throws back his head with a high moan when Phil finally finds what he’s looking for.

“There, God, Phil. _There_. Give me another, I can take it.”

A couple more experimental thrusts and Phil determines he’s right. He adds another finger, thrusting and scissoring beginning to stretch Clint out for him. He’s hot and slick with lube and velvety smooth and Phil wants his cock inside so badly he aches up to his teeth. When he judges Clint stretched enough, he adds a third finger.

Clint’s eyes widen in shock, and Phil stops moving. “Are you okay?” he asks, and is appalled at how raspy his voice is.

“I-” Clint responds. “Three? You don’t have to- I’m not made of glass, Phil. Fuck me.”

Phil wants to, he really wants to, but fortunately the icy hot anger that apparently no-one has ever thought it necessary to prep Clint thoroughly helps him keep himself under control. His jaw tightens slightly and he sees Clint tense. “I’m not ready,” he says instead, rubbing soothingly circles into Clint’s hip with the hand holding him still and jabbing at his prostate with the other. “I want you to enjoy this too.”

“I am enjoying it,” Clint promises, pleads. “I am. I just- I need you.”

Phil scissors him open one more time and then pulls his fingers out carefully with a slick pop. He grabs for the tube and uses what’s left of it slicking himself up. He’s barely done before Clint’s lining himself up and sinking down.

It’s only because of the torture resistance training that Phil’s able to keep himself coming as he’s suddenly balls deep in the glorious feeling of Clint. He moans something that’s not even words just a needy noise and suddenly Clint’s moving, rocking up and down.

“Not-” he gasps out, “not going to last.”

“Y- Yeah,” Clint agrees. “Me neither.”

Clint slams down onto him once more then again and a third time, harder than any other and there are ropes of hot come striping his chest and Phil is gone. He comes for nearly a whole minute, filling Clint up, the way he’s wanted to for months.

They stay that way for a long time, panting, regaining their breath. When he is breathing evenly again, Clint gives Phil the insolent smile that he reserves just for him and swipes a hand through his own come, pooling in streaks in Phil’s chest. Then he licks his fingers clean. Phil has to shut his eyes against the image and his spent cock, still sheathed inside Clint, gives a valiant twitch.

“I-” Phil starts, swallows, and Clint pauses in the act of swiping yet another finger full of come, because Phil is never hesitant. “I want to take you home.”

“I think it’s too late to do it properly in a bed, sir.”

 _This time_ Phil thinks, but he shakes his head in negation. “That isn’t what I meant. I want to hold you, and I want to make you breakfast in the morning.” He locks eyes with Clint, pouring his sincerity through his gaze if such a thing is possible. “I want this to be more than sex.”

Clint regards him for another long moment, for the first time there’s something like unease in his eyes. “I don’t- I’ve never.”

He stops and flushes and Phil waits, patient and still because he is always willing to wait for Clint.

“I’ve never had a real relationship. Sex is easy. The rest…”

“If you don’t want to,” Phil offers, forcing his voice not to crack. He has no intention of making Clint do anything. He will wait as long as Clint needs.

“No. I do. I just…don’t know how.”

“We’ll take it slow,” Phil promises, hands tightening involuntarily on Clint’s hips.

Clint looks down at their interlocked bodies. “I don’t know that this can be counted as slow.”

“Well…the relationship stuff we’ll take slow. I won’t call you Peaches until at least our third date, how’s that?”

“That sounds fine, Cabbage,” Clint returns without missing a beat. Then his face takes a serious cast. “You want to date me? I’m a mess.”

Phil ignores the last bit. He has plenty of time – the rest of their lives – to convince Clint that he’s perfect. “Of course I want to date you. That’s what being in love with you means. I want to share everything with you.”

There’s another silence, but this time Clint doesn’t look uneasy, instead there’s pure _longing_ lighting his face. Phil forces himself to be still and quiet, to let Clint make the decision. After a second, Clint rolls his hips, pulling free of Phil’s cock, and Phil gasped as he’s suddenly exposed to cold air. He stands, and Phil stares where he is, naked and vulnerable on the floor and not the slightest bit uneasy with Clint standing over him.

The show of trust raises a soft smile to Clint’s lips, and he offers Phil a hand. Phil doesn’t hesitate in taking it and allowing himself to be tugged to his feet. “All right then, sir. Let’s go back to your place and try this cuddling thing.”

 


End file.
